The Prodigal Son Returns
by SplatDragon
Summary: Marston had been gone for a year. Had left his boy without a father, had left Abigail to raise Jack alone. Had abandoned them, had up and left their family. And then he just shows up and expects to be welcomed back with open arms? Thinks that bringing everyone gifts will make them forget his transgressions? Yeah, right.


It was one of those days.

Those days where the sun itself seemed out to get you, shining straight overhead no matter how hard and how fast you rode your horse. The ground baked, cracking beneath poor Boadicea's hooves. The mare's sides heaved, bay coat gleaming with sweat, shoulders flecked with white spittle.

Arthur was slumped low over the mare's lowered neck, shoulders curled and chin tucked against his chest, hat pulled low on his head to cast as much shade on himself as he could. Only fools would be out in such horrible heat, and so he allowed Boadicea to have her head, the mare knowing the way back to camp. His shotgun was slung over his lap, in case of the off-chance that there were some particularly stupid O'Driscolls or Bounty Hunters about.

A young buck was strapped down across Boadicea's flanks, blood from the wound that put it down mixing with the mare's sweat. The buck, too, was covered in sweat, having worked up a good lather in a rather short chase. Its pelt wasn't in the best condition - it wasn't mangy or anything, but it wasn't golden and gleaming like he wanted. It was a completely average animal, but it would feed and clothe them.

A clod of dirt crumpled beneath the mare's hoof, and she shied with a disgruntled snort. Arthur stretched forward to pat her neck, a soothing murmur rumbling in his chest. The mare's flesh twitched beneath his hands, but she settled, twitching her ears at the sound of his familiar voice. With a squeeze of his thighs, the mare began to move again, striding forward reluctantly. As the outlaw straightened up, he unlatched a canteen from its place on her saddle, swishing it around. The water inside slashed hollowly and, he began to drink, tasted of metal. But his mouth was as dry as the soil beneath the horse's hooves, and so any water was welcome.

Lowering the empty canteen, he swallowed and closed his mouth, hissing as his jaw protested the movement. The man reached up to massage the flesh, already able to feel a bruise beginning to bloom. He would be the first to admit that he deserved the blow - he owed Javier an apology. Several apologies, if he was being honest. Owed _everyone_ in the camp an apology.

He had been out of sorts for over a week, to tell the truth. Had sent Jack crying to Abigail when he wouldn't wear the flower crown the child had made (he had a chocolate bar in his pocket for the boy, though it had probably melted). Had told Pearson what he thought of his cooking - what everyone thought of it, though they were kind enough to hold their tongues. But last night Javier had been playing his guitar and singing while Arthur had been reading through one of his old journals. Perhaps he would have held his temper any other night, had he been reading any other journal. But it had been a year to the day that John had left, and he had found the journal he had had when John joined up. He had been reading through it when Javier began to sing, and the distraction had thrown him into an uncharacteristic rage.

The man didn't remember most of the things he had said. It was as though he had been possessed, had watched himself loom over Javier, screaming so loud the untethered horses had had to be rounded up. He remembered, though, telling Javier that no one wanted to hear him sing - that he had a horrible voice. That his guitar was horribly out of tune and made his ears bleed.

Arthur groaned, rubbing his face.

He had continued on along that vein until Charles, no longer able to stand the look on Javier's face, had walked up, grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around and decked him. His eyes had rolled, and everything had gone blurry until he had been dropped at Dutch's feet.

And Dutch had been so _disappointed_. He would have preferred anything to Dutch being disappointed. He'd rather Dutch hit him, strike him, shoot him, yell at him. There was nothing worse than having Dutch say "I'm disappointed in you, Arthur." The man had sent him away from the camp, telling him not to come back until he had cooled his head and had something to show for his time - whether that was an animal to butcher or money from a robbery, it didn't matter. It had been rather cool last night, and he knew that, if it had been half as hot as it was come the morning, Dutch would have never sent him out to suffer.

"I miss him, too." the man had said, patting his shoulder, a knowing look in his eye. All the fight had left Arthur, leaving him full of shame as he slunk out of Dutch's tent, heading out to tack up his mare. Everyone gave him a wide berth, having seen the earlier confrontation.

Boadicea came to a stand-still, and Arthur was drawn from his thoughts, raising his head. The air was a margin cooler, he realized, and he found himself in the shaded pathway that led to their camp. Something curdled, low and uneasy, in his stomach - someone should have met him long before he made it to this point. Had something happened while he was gone? But - no, the other horses were grazing in their places, even those that were untethered. If anything _had_ happened, the horses would have scattered.

Oh, if whoever had been assigned watch had lazed off, Dutch would be _furious_. And so would he, he would not stand by and allow someone to potentially be hurt because their guard decided to take a break.

The man slid down from Boadicea's saddle with a groan, stretching and feeling his bones pop. His pants were soaked with horse-sweat, and clung to his skin - he reached down to peel them loose. Patting the mare's side, he undid the ropes that held the buck in place, slinging it to the ground, taking the time to remove the mare's tack. He didn't intend on leaving the camp for the rest of the day, already dreaming of the bath he wanted to draw, needing to get the coarse horse hair off of his skin - it itched!

Arthur took a moment to scratch that hard-to-reach spot behind Boadicea's ear, the mare shaking herself as she lowered her head to graze, grateful to have been relieved of all the extra weight. He murmured his thanks, intending on coming back to groom her later, get all the caked-in filth out. But for now, he stooped down to sling the buck over his shoulder, making his way into camp.

Pearson's wagon had been set up near the entrance so that those who brought back carcasses to be butchered would not have to carry them far. Arthur dropped the carcass on the table, noticing for the first time how quiet it was. He frowned - a stew had been abandoned while cooking, the fire beneath it almost out. Albeit, that might have been a blessing.

The man looked around, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. There seemed to be a commotion, he realized, near the back of the camp, and so he began to follow it, one hand dropping to the pistol on his hip. Although it didn't sound like _that_ kind of commotion, but the happy kind of commotion, the one where everyone would end up drunk as skunks later and miserable tomorrow. The kind with loud, excited, lilting voices, falling over each-other and speaking so rapidly that he couldn't make out the words.

He had to step over a bedroll - it was Jack's, he realized, the boy must have dragged it out from the lean-to like tent. It was far too large for a boy of his age, made with dark-colored wolf fur. It had been John's, before the man had left, and there was an agonizing pang in Arthur's chest. Before John had left, Jack had had to share his bedroll with Abigail, as there was no point in making him a bedroll he would make filthy and out-grow so quickly. But with John gone, they had an extra bedroll they didn't need, one that was threadbare and worn with much of the fur shed, and so it had been bequeathed to the boy.

The man took a deep breath, looking to the side. He could see John as though the man were right in front of him, grumbling as he was given the bedroll by Hosea, complaining about the fleas he was sure to get. But it was impossible to miss the soft, pleased expression on his face. It had been given to John not long after he had earned his place in the family, when the boy was only eighteen or so.

Arthur walked passed the campfire, where the logs had been circled around it so they could sit and stay warm on cooler days and chilly nights, listen to Javier play his guitar and sing. Wincing, he looked away from the log that the man had been sitting on when he had lost his temper the night before. John had loved to sit around the fire, hands dangling between spread legs, head low and eyes half-lidded as he allowed himself to relax, basking in the warmth and humming along to whatever bawdy song was being sung. But the man blinked, and little Johnny Marston was gone.

He approached the table where he, Hosea and John often sat, playing Poker and Dominoes. On the wind, he could hear John moaning on and on about women, how they would tear you apart mercilessly, nag at you and mold you into someone wholly different. Even now, he could hear the man's words become jaded and bitter, snarling and snapping like a cornered wolf as he swore that little Jack Marston wasn't his - wasn't his blood, wasn't of his flesh. Arthur flinched, looking away from the table, hearing his own voice join in the ribbing. Maybe if he hadn't said anything, maybe if he had told the others to lay off, they wouldn't have woken to find Marston gone. Maybe if he had… maybe if he hadn't… Maybe if he did… Maybe if he didn't… Maybe…

When he found the source of the commotion, he thought for sure he was seeing another ghost. Because there was no reason for John Marston to be standing in the center of their family, looking hale and healthy, eyes bright and happy, hands moving rapidly through the air as he spoke. But there was no denying it - not unless he was hallucinating the way that Dutch was standing there, nodding along. The way Hosea was smiling in that way of his, one hand on Dutch's shoulder, just like Dutch's was on John's. The way that everyone was watching John as though he were some hero returning from a brush with death, not a mangy cur that had fled with its tail between its legs at the first sign of disagreement.

His heart rushed in his ears, and Arthur's fist clenched on his pistol. For a moment, nothing sounded like a better idea than drawing the gun and putting a bullet between the man's eyes, watching him drop like the worthless dog he was. But then movement caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to see Abigail moving away from the gathering, towards her tent, hurrying Jack ahead of her. Her movements were sharp and harsh, and the snarl of rage on her face was a mirror of his own.

Looking back at Marston, he sneered - the man had begun to pass out gifts. Who was he now, Father Christmas? Did he think he could gather back their favor with things? But it looked to be working. Karen seemed to be quite happy with the crate of various alcohols he had pulled from the wagon hitched behind a horse Arthur had never seen before - some dark brown thing, with a wild white mane that covered its eyes - and Javier was speechless as he ran his fingers over the neck of a beautifully crafted guitar. Dutch was quickly given several fountain pens, and Arthur idly wondered how many people John had to kill to get all of these gifts, eyeing the many things still in the back of the wagon.

Arthur shook his head, turning on his heel to walk away. Pearson was distracted by a new set of cooking utensils, and so he intended on butchering the deer before it could go bad in the heat. But a call of "Morgan!" and the sound of approaching footsteps made him still, turning to see who had come up to him.

John Marston stood before him, weight resting on his rightmost foot in a habit that he had picked up from Arthur. And for a moment, Arthur could see little Johnny, the young boy who had mimicked everything he had done; until the boy - the man - opened his mouth. "You didn't think I forgot you, did you?" he chuckled, pressing something into Arthur's hands.

Morgan looked down, finding himself holding a journal. Ghosting his fingers over the cover, he found it to be black leather, of extremely high quality. In gold, the letters AM were carved into the bottom right corner of the cover, and when he opened the journal the spine cracked. The pages were smooth and white, still neatly bound and unwritten in. In the back of his head, Arthur knew that Marston had to have bought this himself, had to have spent a great deal of money on it. There was no way he could have had the luck to steal a brand new journal engraved with his initials on it.

Heat bubbled in his chest, and he flashed his teeth, flung the journal at Marston's feet, feeling a grim satisfaction as it landed face down, pages crumpling and pure white becoming coated in filth. Whirling about on his heel, he began to stalk away, grinding his teeth. His eyes landed on Hosea, the older man bouncing Jack on his knee, trying to distract the boy. "People don't forget, John." His use of the man's first name made him startle, raising his head from where he had been staring at the ruined journal, turning it over in his hands. Arthur saw, then, Abigail sitting on her bedroll, head in her heads, shoulders shaking, and then he knew why Hosea was playing with Jack. Arthur growled, clenching his fist as he fought the urge to spin around and lay the man out - he had walked out, been gone for a year, thrown his family into chaos and left them missing one of their own. Jack had lost a father, Dutch and Hosea a son; Abigail a… husband, if he could be called that, and Arthur his brother, as reluctant as he was to admit it. And then he waltzed in, passing out stolen gifts, expecting to be welcomed in with open arms. Some of them may have fallen for it, those who weren't too close to him were happy to accept a gift in return for forgiving him, but his family would not.

_"Nothing _gets forgiven." he spat and, uncaring of the heat, stalked away to tack up Boadicea, not sure of where he would go but knowing that he would not return until he had blood on his hands and something to tithe to the camp.


End file.
